Scattered Roses
by Princess Kanako
Summary: Dying and being reborn into Jane Eyre's body wasn't exactly what Rose had in mind. Then again, she hadn't exactly planned on dying either. Self-Insert, OC.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Hello! I'm a huge Jane Eyre fan; it's a truly amazing novel, written by one of the greatest writers **ever**. I will be using the 2011 movie mainly as my medium, but I will possibly crossover into some of the other versions. I think it goes without saying that I will make up some of my own scenes; there are so many moments in both the movie and book that could be explored, so I will try to do this properly. If I don't update regularly, please don't get too upset. I have other stories that I'm also trying to update, and I'm just real-life's bitch, so I will be kidnapped on occasion. Anyway, without further ado, my beloved Jane Eyre fic is now open for reading! Much love, Princess Kanako x

**Title: **Scattered Roses

**Author:** Princess Kanako

**Pairing(s):** (Self-insert!OC)Jane Eyre/Mr. Rochester

**Date Submitted:** 22/05/14

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Jane Eyre; it belongs to the marvellous Charlotte Brontë

**Claimer:** I do own Rose Carey, a few plot ideas, and any other OCs that pop up along the way.

**Genre:** Romance, Drama, Angst

**Summary: **Dying and being reborn into Jane Eyre's body wasn't exactly what Rose had in mind. Then again, she hadn't exactly planned on dying either.

**Warnings: **Hints of death.

* * *

_Dying sucks. But dying from pancreatic cancer sucks even more._ Rose paused, her face contracting in pain as a sharp twinge flew through her, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. She shifted in her bed, continuing with her writing. _The pain isn't as bad as it was. I think I'm nearing the end now._ Her pen stopped for a moment, before scribbling in tiny letters: _I'm scared.__  
_

Confined to a hospital bed for the past fourteen months, Rose was literally wasting away, unable to move. Paralysed from the pain and hating every second of it.

In her opinion, life really, really sucked. Dying before finishing college really, really sucked. Never falling in love - _properly_ \- really, really sucked. Worrying her family endlessly really, really sucked. Unable to leave her room really, really sucked. All in all, she really, _really_ hated her life.

Oh, she knew it could have been worse. Rose could have been hated. She could have been abused. She could have had to live on the street, maybe, but it was still pretty bad. Her parents were good people. They loved her and did everything possible to make sure she was comfortable and happy. Her little sisters were amazing, and Rose knew it was hard for them, too.

She loved her baby sisters, and it was so hard to let them see her like this, hooked up to drips and feeds. But they always visited after school, determined to cheer her up. When her sisters visited her, they always brought something new to distract her. Sometimes a book, or a movie or game or… anything, really. Rose loved the books more than anything. She was constantly teased about being a book-worm. She didn't mind. She devoured those books like they were a hearty meal. She was envious of all the feats the characters could accomplish. She was jealous of how, despite the hardships faced, they were able to stand up, tall and proud. She wanted to be like that. She wanted to be okay with dying. She didn't want to live as a nuisance.

She tried.

She really did.

She wasn't sure if she succeeded, though.

When Rose died, she died at the age of twenty-one; July eleventh at four-fifteen in the morning. To even begin to describe how it felt when it became clear that she _died_, the physical or emotional experience, is impossible.

She couldn't, even if she tried.

* * *

Rose bolted upright in her bed, panting heavily. Sweat trickled down her skin, making her clothes stick to her body. Her hands shook slightly as she pushed back a stray hair from her face. She paused.

_Long hair?_

That was impossible. She'd been near bald in the hospital. Very slowly, she pulled a lock of sweat-drenched hair up in front of her eyes and stared at it. Brown hair. A mousy brown lock of hair.

_When the hell did I dye my hair?_

That's when she noticed the room.

_What the hell?_

The sheets were a bland white and scratched her skin. The wall, a plain white, the floorboards a dull brown. The door was wooden with a latch, and a porcelain bowl filled with water stood on the wooden nightstand. Rose wanted to scream. What the hell was going on? Where was _her_ room? Where was her amazing room that was covered in posters? Where was her computer, hooked up with her sticker-covered-speakers? Damn it, where was _she_?

Confused and frustrated, she threw the woollen blanket off of her and stood. For a moment. She promptly plopped straight back onto the bed, her legs tingling weakly as the room spun. Groaning in exasperation, she stood once more - _slowly_ this time - and made her way across the room gingerly, towards the single mirror hanging on the wall. She had to stand on her tippy toes to even reach it. When it was finally safe in her hands, she stared at the person contained within the glass in shock.

Mousy hair in the place of black. Brown eyes instead of turquoise. Most shocking of all, a _child's_ face stared back at her, instead of the adult she was so used to seeing. Rose stared at her reflection, slowing brining up a hand to touch her cheek. The girl in the mirror copied her.

_What on earth...?_

She was in shock for a few more minutes until she came up with two possible theories.

1\. She was having a very weird dream, and any minute now she'd be woken up to yet another nurse poking yet another needle into her veins.

2\. She had actually _died_, and this was either the afterlife, or she'd been reincarnated into her next life.

Both of her theories were improbable. But _not_ impossible. Either way, for the first time in her life, she was _free_. No more pain. No more needles. No more crying parents. She could run. She could jump. She could go to school. She could read and draw and paint and… She could play an instrument. She could fall in love. She could do _anything_. She wasn't bedridden. She could, at last, have the life she'd thought was beyond her reach forever. There were so many possibilities. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. Literally. And she was not going to waste it.

At least, that's what she was thinking when the floor decided to collide with her face.

* * *

Waking some time later, Rose found herself looking at a tired-looking woman and an equally exhausted man in the strangest clothes. They were conversing quietly at the door to the room, but as she struggled to sit up, they turned. The woman's face brightened, and both of them came over to the bed, the woman sitting on one side, and the man standing at the other. She recognised the woman from...somewhere. But Rose was one hundred percent sure she'd never seen the woman in her life.

"How are you feeling today, young miss?" the man - a doctor, Rose summarised, as he took her pulse - asked, his eyes twinkling kindly. "You gave us quite the scare, you know."

"I did?" Rose asked, her voice soft and scratchy as though she had the flu. The woman nodded.

"Indeed, child!" she replied in a warm, sweet voice. "Getting out of bed in your condition and fainting onto the floor? Hardly sensible behaviour!"

"I'm sorry," Rose muttered, her cheeks burning.

"It's quite all right Jane," the woman soothed. The child blinked up at her in confusion.

"Excuse me?" she whispered. The doctor and the woman glanced at each other.

"Do you know where you are, child?" the doctor asked slowly.

"England?" Rose said tentatively, feeling her stomach settle as a nod greeted her answer.

"And who am I, can you remember?" the woman asked. Rose looked at her anxiously, wondering what the heck she could say. _Miss Temple,_ a little voice in her head whispered. _She is a friend. You can trust her._

"Miss Temple."

"And what is your own name, child?" the doctor asked. Rose inwardly panicked; they had called her 'Jane' not five minutes ago, clearly believing her to be someone else. If, however, her theory was correct, then she _was_ someone else. Rose Carter didn't exist here - not to everyone else. She had to keep herself a secret from the world. Her head was throbbing in pain._  
_

"I-I can't remember," she stuttered, holding a hand up to her temple. "I'm sorry, but I can't-"

"Hush now," Miss Temple soothed, gently pushing her down into the bed and tucking the blankets around her, "There is no need to fret. Just rest, Jane. You are still weak after the fever."

"Yes Miss Temple," Rose answered quietly, sinking back into the cool pillow and shutting her eyes as the two adults moved away towards the door. They spoke quietly, but she caught a snippet of their conversation - "Amnesia, it looks like. Brought on by weakness of the body due to the fever and her tumble yesterday. She may have to be re-taught everything."

_Amnesia_. She mentally snorted. _I'll have to play that card for all I'm worth now. Or someone will know that something's wrong. And that's not good._ She turned over in bed and yawned.

_Not good at all._

* * *

**To be continued...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Hi everyone. I did warn you I would be kidnapped upon occasion, so I do apologise...and this chapter was a tricky one to write. Also, many thanks to those who reviewed! Love you guys! Anyway, enjoy the chapter. Much love, Princess Kanako x

**Title: **Scattered Roses

**Author:** Princess Kanako

**Pairing(s):** (Self-insert!OC)Jane Eyre/Mr. Rochester

**Date Submitted:** 18/07/14

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Jane Eyre; it belongs to the marvellous Charlotte Brontë

**Claimer:** I do own Rose Carey, a few plot ideas, and any other OCs that pop up along the way.

**Genre:** Romance, Drama, Angst

**Summary: **Dying and being reborn into Jane Eyre's body wasn't exactly what Rose had in mind. Then again, she hadn't exactly planned on dying either.

**Warnings: **Small amounts of Miss Scatcherd. Wench.

* * *

The last ten years had been...interesting, for Rose. Ten years in Lowwood school, having to live as one person but _knowing _herself to be another. She'd slipped a few times, but it had always been dismissed as childish nonsense - thank God. At least she was a teacher now, no longer a pupil. But she had to leave this dammed place before she wound up spending the rest of her life here; hence, her advertisement. She had no answers yet, but they would come.

Hopefully.

Smoothing the bodice of her plain grey dress, Rose examined her reflection in the mirror. Her mousy hair had darkened over the years, and was now a very dark brown, bordering on black. Her eyes weren't brown any more, but they weren't her original turquoise either; instead, her eyes were a very peculiar shade of green. She wasn't completely Jane Eyre, but neither was she her old self either. Rose let out a soft sigh.

"I'm different, in whatever life I'm in," she whispered, straightening her shoulders and moving towards the door. She had classes to teach.

* * *

Breakfast was the same as usual - porridge and tea, but as a teacher, she could have sugar in her tea or honey on her porridge. Not that exciting, Rose mused, taking a sip of her tea, but much better then the plain fare the students had to eat; though Miss Temple was trying to change that.

She saw Richard, one of the servants, approach the table from the corner of her eye, a bundle of letters in his large hand. He handed them to Miss Scatcherd, then made his way down the hall, bobbing his head at the girls as he went. Rose smiled. He was such a sweetheart to them.

"Miss Eyre?" Miss Scatcherd said loudly from the opposite end of the long table. Rose glanced up curiously. "There appears to be a letter for you, Miss Eyre."

The letter was slowly passed along the table to her, most of the teachers taking a long look at said item before passing it to their neighbour. When it reached Rose, she glanced at it quickly and stuffed it into her pocket, determined to read it later.

"Aren't you going to open it, Miss Eyre?" Miss Wilson asked poisonously. Rose shook her head.

"It is rude to read at the table, Miss Wilson," she replied serenely, mentally doing a fist-pump at her neighbour's acid expression. The meal was finished quietly, and the hall soon emptied, its occupants going to their respective classes. The day dragged by for Rose. She was busy for most of the day with her students, then she had to supervise them for their hour of study, then it was her turn to read prayers, to see them to bed and afterwards, to eat her supper with the other teachers. When she was finally able to retire for the night, she sat on her bed cross-legged and finally took out her letter. The wax seal was set with the initial F and was quickly broken as Rose essentially dissected the letter. The contents were brief, to the point, and a smile spread across her face.**  
**

_If J.E. who advertised in the Yorkshire Herald of last Thursday possesses the acquirements mentioned, and if she is in a position to give satisfactory references as to character and competency, a situation can be offered to her. There is but one pupil, a little girl, under ten years of age, and the salary is thirty pounds per annum. J.E. is requested to send references, name, address, and all particulars to Mrs Fairfax, Thornfield Hall, Buckinghamshire._

Perfect.

The next day, Rose set her plan into motion; she couldn't keep this to herself any longer if she wanted to take the position. After lunch, she cornered Miss Temple in her room and informed her she had a prospect of getting a new situation where the salary would be double what Rose currently received. Rose asked if Miss Temple would discuss the matter for her with the committee, and inquire whether they would give her references. Miss Temple obliged, and the next day she laid the affair before Mr. Brocklehurst, who said that Mrs. Reed must be written to, as she was Rose's natural guardian. A note was accordingly addressed to the lady in question, who replied that she could do as she pleased, for 'I have long relinquished all interference in that child's affairs.'

"Snotty cow," Rose giggled in her room, and that was all she would say on the matter.

The note went around the committee, and after a week, formal leave was given Rose to 'better your condition if you can', and an assurance added, that as 'you have always conducted yourself well, both as teacher and pupil at Lowood', a testimonial of character and capacity, signed by the inspectors of said hellish institution, would be issued directly. Rose received her references and forwarded copies of them to Mrs. Fairfax imminently, waiting anxiously for a reply. Mrs. Fairfax answered swiftly, stating that she was satisfied, and informed Rose that she would be expected on the 18th of February, two weeks from now.

Rose plunged herself in preparations and the fortnight passed quickly. She didn't have a very large wardrobe, courtesy of the Lowood charity box, but she did afford herself one luxury; a new dress that was plain and simple, in a soft, dark blue that exposed her shoulders. It was dull and insignificant next to the other dresses in the shop, but Rose loved it, and it suited her very well.

The evening before she left, Rose hurried around her rooms, mentally ticking things off. The box was corded, the card nailed on. Her travelling dress had been brushed, her bonnet, gloves, and muff prepared; her drawers checked to see that no article was left behind; and eventually, Rose sank into the easy chair by the fire and fell into a fitful sleep.

* * *

The following evening saw Rose sitting in a private room at the George Inn in the town of Millcote, richly furnished in comparison to her previous accommodation and warm due to the blazing fire in the grate. She was crouched in front of the fire, her hands spread to absorb the warmth quickly. Her cloak, bonnet, muff and umbrella lay on the table dripping slightly, as the clock struck eight. Sixteen hours travelling - and not a single person to meet her when she arrived.

In confusion, she had entered the inn and asked if anyone had been looking for her. She was answered in the negative, and with little else to do, asked to be shown to a private room and peeled her damp over-clothes off, doubts and fears scuttling across her mind rapidly as she waited. Half an hour ticked by, and still, no-one had come to fetch her. Annoyed, she rang the bell and a young maid answered.

"Is there a place in this neighbourhood called Thornfield?" Rose asked.

"Thornfield? I don't know, ma'am; I'll inquire at the bar." She vanished, but reappeared instantly. "Is your name Eyre, Miss?"

"Yes."

"Person here waiting for you."

Rose swung her cloak on, muff, bonnet and umbrella in hand, and hastened into the inn-passage: a man was standing by the open door, an irritated look on his face.

"This will be your luggage, I suppose?" the man said rather abruptly when he saw her, pointing to her trunk in the passage.

"Yes."

He hoisted it on to the carriage, and bundled Rose inside.

"How far is it to Thornfield?" she asked.

"A matter of six miles," was her answer.

"How long shall we be before we get there?"

"Happen an hour and a half."

He fastened the car door, climbed to his own seat outside, and they set off. Their progress was leisurely, and gave Rose ample time to think; she was quite happy to be so near the end of her journey; and as she leaned back in the comfortable seat, she closed her eyes and dozed. A rap on the roof jolted her from her nap.

"You're noan so far fro' Thornfield now," the driver informed her.

About ten minutes after, the driver stopped before a large wooden gate. A small side door was opened by a maid, who spoke briefly with the driver before opening the carriage door. Rose exited the carriage and went in.

"Will you walk this way, ma'am?" the girl said as she bobbed a curtsy. Rose followed her across the courtyard and into a square hall with high doors all round and was ushered into a room which was bright with candlelight, too bright for her eyes which had been in darkness the past two hours; when she could see, however, a cosy and agreeable picture greeted her.

A cosy room, a round table by a cheerful fire, an arm-chair high-backed and old-fashioned, in which sat the neatest imaginable little elderly lady, in a widow's cap, black silk gown, and snowy muslin apron. She was occupied in knitting; a large cat sat demurely at her feet; nothing in short was wanting to complete the picturesque of domestic comfort. There was no grandeur to overwhelm, no stateliness to embarrass; and then, as she entered, the old lady got up and promptly came forward to meet her, a smile on her face

* * *

**To be continued...**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** This one was evil, as I'm not overly fond of Mrs Fairfax in general, so I tried my best. Apologies for the delay, and thank you so much **Bonbonnett**, **Elena**, and **Cassy** for your lovely reviews. Hope this meets your expectations. Much love, Princess Kanako x

**Title: **Scattered Roses

**Author:** Princess Kanako

**Pairing(s):** (Self-insert!OC)Jane Eyre/Mr. Rochester

**Date Submitted:** 30/10/14

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Jane Eyre; it belongs to the marvellous Charlotte Brontë

**Claimer:** I do own Rose Carey, a few plot ideas, and any other OCs that pop up along the way.

**Genre:** Romance, Drama, Angst

**Summary: **Dying and being reborn into Jane Eyre's body wasn't exactly what Rose had in mind. Then again, she hadn't exactly planned on dying either.

**Warnings: **May contain scenes of dullness.

* * *

"How do you do, my dear?" she greeted politely.

"Are you Mrs Fairfax?" Rose asked, a wave of shyness hitting her.

"Indeed I am," Mrs Fairfax replied as she stood before her. "What a tedious journey you must have had. How long have you been travelling?"

"All day," Rose admitted ruefully, attempting to untie her bonnet.

"Oh, your hands must be frozen," Mrs Fairfax exclaimed, "Here, let me." She began to remove Rose's cloak and untie her bonnet-strings; Rose felt embarrassed.

"Please don't trouble yourself," she begged.

"Oh, it's no trouble my dear; your hands are like ice," the older woman replied, with a pooh-pooh gesture. "Leah, would you fetch a little hot port and cut a sandwich or two? Here are the keys of the storeroom." And she produced from her pocket an enormous bunch of keys, and handed them to the waiting girl. "Now, come warm yourself by the fire. John is taking your trunk up to your room."

What looked like a half-knitted shawl lay abandoned on Mrs Fairfax's chair. She moved it and gestured for Rose to sit opposite while she cleared a few books from the table to make room for the tray Leah now carried into the room and handed Rose her refreshments herself. Rose felt confused at being the object of such considerate attention, and by her employer and (she still couldn't get used to it) superior; but as the older woman didn't think she was doing anything out of her place, Rose shut up and enjoyed the mothering quietly. As she supped, her eyes saw that every surface was covered in lace, embroidery, or crochet. The whole room was an advertisement for Mrs Fairfax's skill with a needle - or, she thought sombrely, to the hours she'd spent alone.

"I've put you at the back of the house; I hope you don't mind," Mrs Fairfax said after Rose had eaten her fill. "The rooms at the front have much finer furniture but they are so gloomy and solitary I think." Rose smiled encouragingly as the cat rubbed itself up against her ankles. "I'm so glad you are come; it will be quite pleasant living here now with a companion. To be sure, this is a fine old house but I must confess that in winter one can feel a little...dreary and alone. Leah is a very nice girl and John and Martha are good people too, but they are servants - and one cannot talk to them on terms of equality; one must keep them at due distance, for fear of losing one's authority."

_And there's the Victorian snob system I hate, _Rose thought with a hint of disgust. She really couldn't blame Mrs Fairfax; it was what she'd been brought up to believe was fair and true. Rose was _so_ thankful she'd been brought up in the twenty-first century. Time to change the subject.

"Shall I have the pleasure of seeing Miss Fairfax to-night?" she asked.

"Who?" Mrs Fairfax blinked, confused.

"Miss Fairfax," Rose repeated. "My pupil."

"Oh, you mean Miss Varens, Mr Rochester's ward; she's to be your pupil."

"Who's Mr Rochester?" Rose asked in bewilderment.

"Why, the owner of Thornfield!" Mrs Fairfax exclaimed. "Mr Edward Fairfax Rochester."

"I thought...I thought Thornfield belonged to you," Rose confessed, feeling foolish as Mrs Fairfax laughed.

"Oh, bless you child! What an idea!" she positively giggled. Rose clenched her hands in annoyance before releasing them. "Me? I'm only the housekeeper!"

"I see," she managed. "I apologise."

"Oh, it's quite all right dear," Mrs Fairfax soothed. "But I'll not keep you sitting up late tonight. It's near midnight now, and you've been travelling all day: you must be tired. If you have got your feet well warmed, I'll show you your bedroom."

Wiping her hands together, Rose stood and accepted the candle Mrs Fairfax handed to her before following her down the dark corridors. As they walked, Mrs Fairfax chattered about the weather, last winter, and her knitting. Rose listened with half an ear as she looked as best she could at the paintings on the wall. Most of them were landscapes, but there were a few portraits nestled in amongst them. Near the end of the long gallery, almost hidden by the dark heavy drapes, another portrait lurked. A dark, voluptuous woman sat in an 18th Century gown, her lips the colour of blood, with one full breast exposed. Her face heating, Rose looked away, just as Mrs Fairfax stopped in front of a door.

"Here we are, my dear," she fussed, "John's lit the fire for you, so it should be nice and warm."

She opened the door to a small, beautiful room. A small fire was burning in the grate, a lamp lit by the bed, a soft pearly green quilt, matching chintz curtains.

"Is this my room?" Rose whispered, awe-struck. Mrs Fairfax looked at her, a tad worried.

"Yes," she replied uncertainly. "Is something wrong?"

Rose shook her head, a lump forming in her throat. "I can't help feeling that this is a dream, and I'm going to wake up any minute."

The older woman smiled and patted Rose's shoulder.

"We are quite real. Goodnight my dear."

"Goodnight Mrs Fairfax."

When Rose had fastened the door, she gazed round. It was so different, she thought, from her own bedroom from before, but much more preferable then her old room at Lowwood, or that damned hospital room. Exhausted, she changed into her nightdress and crawled into bed, falling asleep almost immediately.

* * *

Her bedroom looked so warm and welcoming to Rose's eyes as she woke the next morning, the sun shining in between the window curtains, showing cream walls and a carpeted floor, so unlike the bare planks and dull plaster of Lowwood. She climbed out of bed and dressed herself with care, until she felt ready to appear before Mrs. Fairfax, and that her pupil would not recoil from her. She tidied up after herself quickly before leaving her room.

Walking briskly down the gallery, Rose descended the staircase; then entered the hall. She paused for a minute to look at the pictures on the walls once more before moving on. The hall-door stood open and she stepped over the threshold. It was a lovely morning; the early sun shone serenely on the slowly awakening Spring. Stopping in the middle of the lawn, Rose looked up and properly _looked_ at her new home. It was three storeys high, and quite wide, with battlements round the top. The grey front stood out well from the background of a rookery, whose cawing tenants were absent. Farther off were hills; not so lofty as those round Lowwood, not like barriers of separation from the living world; but yet quiet and lonely hills enough, and they seemed to embrace Thornfield with a seclusion Rose had not expected to find existent so near the stirring locality of Millcote. The artistic eye that Rose seemed to have gained when she became Jane Eyre was enjoying the sights before her and absently sketching the landscape in her head when Mrs Fairfax appeared at the hall door.

"What! Up already?" she called. "I see you are an early riser."

Rose over to her, and received (to her surprise) with a kiss on the cheek and shake of the hand.

"How do you like Thornfield, my dear?" she asked.

"Very much, Mrs Fairfax," Rose replied truthfully.

"Yes," she allowed, "it is a pretty place; but I fear it will be getting out of order, unless Mr. Rochester should take it into his head to come and reside here permanently; or, at least, visit it rather oftener: great houses and fine grounds require the presence of the proprietor."

"And what is his relation to my pupil?" Rose asked.

"She is Mr. Rochester's ward; he ordered me to find a governess for her. She is waiting for you in the nursery with her _bonne_, as she calls her nurse. If you'll follow me, my dear."

* * *

**To be continued...**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** This...yeah...can't speak French so most of Adele's French is from the book. I mangle that language to terribly. So there'll be like, two sentences in French, and then the rest is all italic-ed English. I am so sorry for the delay, everyone. I get wayyyy too distracted for my own good. Apologies for the delay, and thank you so much **Bonbonnett**, **gogoloo**, **Yellow Horse**, and **Cassy **(Regarding your review she'll act like Jane for another chapter and then out comes the plot XD) for your lovely reviews. Hope this meets your expectations. By the way (if anyone still follows this), what's your favourite adaptation of Jane Eyre? I'd love to know! Much love, Princess Kanako x

**Title: **Scattered Roses

**Author:** Princess Kanako

**Pairing(s):** (Self-insert!OC)Jane Eyre/Mr. Rochester

**Date Submitted:** 2/8/15

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Jane Eyre; it belongs to the marvellous Charlotte Brontë

**Claimer:** I do own Rose Carey, a few plot ideas, and any other OCs that pop up along the way.

**Genre:** Romance, Drama, Angst

**Summary: **Dying and being reborn into Jane Eyre's body wasn't exactly what Rose had in mind. Then again, she hadn't exactly planned on dying either.

**Warnings: **Contains French which this author is terrible at.

* * *

Her pupil, Rose discovered as they entered the library, was an exquisitely dressed child with hair of dark gold and dark brown eyes. She was talking animatedly to whom Rose assumed was her _bonne_, a girl who seemed to be about her own age.

"Good morning, Adele," Mrs Fairfax said with a smile. "Come and greet the lady who is to teach you, and to make you a clever woman of you some day." The little girl approached, eyeing the pair the entire time.

"_C'est le ma gouverante!_" she said, pointing to a startled Rose, and addressing her nurse; who answered -

"_Mais oui, certainement._"

"Did I mention she's French?" Mrs Fairfax muttered. Rose couldn't help rolling her eyes at that statement.

"I've noticed."

"The nurse is also French," she continued, not noticing another eyeroll, "Adele, I believe, never left France until six months ago. When she first came here she could speak no English; now she can talk it a little: I don't understand her, but you will make out her meaning, I dare say."

Rose had had the advantage of being taught French by a French lady; and as she had been taught the language almost every day in the last ten years, she had become accustomed to the ebb and flow of the language and was able to hold her own quite easily, and therefore not likely to be much at a loss with Adele. She shook hands with the little girl, and as they followed Mrs Fairfax in to breakfast, she asked her some simple questions in her own language;, how old she was, her favourite pastimes, and so on. Adele replied briefly at first, but after we were seated at the table, and she had examined me some ten minutes with her large hazel eyes, the walls of her reservation came tumbling down.

"_Sophie has been crying because no one understands us_," Adele chattered, as Rose buttered some toast for herself.

"_Mademoiselle!_" her maid whispered, mortified. Her young charge looked slightly abashed.

"_Nobody can speak to us except for Mr Rochester and he has gone away_," she amended. "_And Mademoiselle - what is your name?_"

"_Eyre. Jane Eyre._"

"_Aire?_"

Rose concealed a smile. "_Almost_."

"Can you understand her when she runs on so fast?" Mrs. Fairfax asked in surprise.

"Oh yes," she said demurely, taking a sip of her tea. "I understand her as well as I understand you, Mrs Fairfax."

"Would you ask her about her parents?" Mrs Fairfax asked as she poured herself another cup. "Mr Rochester's neglected to tell me anything about her."

"_Adele, where did you live before you came to Thornfield?_" Rose asked, curious to know the answer herself.

"_With Maman...but she has gone to the Holy Virgin now_," the child responded quietly. Rose bit her lip and turned to Mrs Fairfax.

"Her mother has passed away."

Mrs Fairfax murmured sympathetically.

"_Maman used to teach me to dance and say verses,_" the child continued. "_When gentlemen came to see her I used to dance for them or sit on their knees and sing. May I sing for you now?_"

"_That would be lovely, Adele,_" Rose said with a small smile, turning to mutter a quick, "Adele wishes to show us her accomplishments." to Mrs Fairfax.

Adele had finished her breakfast, so she came and placed herself on Rose's knee (much to the governess' astonishment) then, folded her hands, shook back her curls and began to sing. The song was, in essence, about a lady whose lover has betrayed her and who attends a ball decked in her finest to show him that he means nothing to her. It was an odd song for a child to sing, but Adele sang it well enough and didn't seem to completely understand the lyrics. Once she had finished her song, she then rushed into _La Ligue des Rats: fable de La Fontaine_. She recited the piece with great attention to her punctuation and emphasis, her voice had great flexibility, and any gestures used were appropriate for the piece.

"_That was charming, Adele,_" Rose praised, "_Your mother taught you very well._"

She preened at the obvious praise, and after breakfast, Mrs. Fairfax led them to the library, which was to serve as the schoolroom. It had been furnished with a pianoforte, an easel for painting, two globes, and an entire bookcase positively groaning with books; most of them were for study, but there was at least one bookshelf with literature, poetry, biography, travels, romances - in short, something to occupy Rose in the evenings. After testing Adele on her knowledge, she had a starting point to work from, and the morning passed quickly. Adele was quiet, but prone to daydreaming; something that would be remedied when she started learning the piano and to paint, Rose guessed. She seemed to prefer the arts to the sciences.

After a few days passed, they settled into a routine of beginning lessons after breakfast and finishing before lunch. Rose was honestly shocked to discover that it had been nearly a month since she'd arrived in Thornfield. As she went upstairs after lunch one day, Mrs Fairfax called her into a room. It was a large, stately apartment, with rich purple chairs and matching curtains, a Turkish carpet, walnut-panelled walls, one vast window rich in slanted glass, and a lofty ceiling. Mrs. Fairfax was dusting some vases which stood on a sideboard.

"What a beautiful room," Rose said thoughtfully, looking around. "I don't know how I've missed this."

"This is the main dining-room, my dear," Mrs Fairfax explained. "I've just opened the window, to let in a little air. Everything gets so damp in rooms that are seldom lived-in; the drawing-room is ice-cold."

She pointed to a wide arch near the window, which was hung with an interestingly-dyed curtain, looped to one side. Climbing up the two stone steps, and peeping in, Rose sighed dreamily. The drawing room (and indeed, the boudoir beyond) were both spread with rich carpets patterned with brilliant garlands of flowers; the ceilings decorated with carved white grapes and vine-leaves, which glowed in rich contrast to the crimson couches and ottomans. The ornaments on the pale Parisian mantelpiece were made of glittering Bohemian glass in ruby red; and between the windows, large mirrors repeated the general blending of snow and fire.

"These rooms are kept in impeccable condition, Mrs. Fairfax," Rose called over her shoulder. "Not a spot of dust or a single canvas sheet. I'd almost think that the room was used daily except for the slight chill."

"Why thank you, Miss Eyre," the old dame called back. A thought struck Rose, and she turned to look at Mrs Fairfax.

"If the master of the house isn't here, why keep the rooms ready?"

"Oh, Mr. Rochester's visits are rare, but we are never forewarned. I thought it best to keep the rooms in readiness."

"What is he like?" Rose asked, her curiosity piqued.

"He's well-liked; the family has always been respected here. He has a gentleman's tastes and habits, and is considered to be a just landlord to his tenants, though he does not go among them as much as they would like."

"But what of his character?"

"He _is_ rather peculiar, I think: he has travelled a great deal, and seen a great deal of the world. I dare say he is clever, but I never had much conversation with him."

"How is he peculiar, Mrs Fairfax?" she persisted. The dame looked unsure of how to reply.

"Well, when he speaks to you, you cannot be always sure whether he is in jest or earnest, whether he is pleased or the contrary."

After _that_ rather vague statement, Mrs Fairfax led Rose from the dining-room and brought her on a proper tour of the house. Like a duckling following its mother, Rose trailed after her obediently, admiring as she went. The entire house was beautifully arranged, and the large chambers at the front were especially beautiful. Furniture that had once been place downstairs had been moved here as the years had gone by and the fashions changed. The dim light filtering through the windows showed bedsteads a hundred years old, chests in oak or walnut, exotic with their strange carvings of palm branches and cherubs' heads; rows of venerable chairs, high-backed and narrow; antique stools with traces of beautiful embroidery on the cushion tops that had been stitched by fingers decades ago. The whole floor had a stilling feel, as though they were in a shrine of some sort. _Or a tomb_, Rose thought wryly.

"Do the servants sleep here?" Rose asked, her voice sounding unnaturally loud.

"No, no one ever sleeps here," Mrs Fairfax said shaking her head. "Do you know, one would almost say that, if there were a ghost at Thornfield Hall, that this would be its haunt?"

"Really?" Rose laughed. "Is there a ghost, then?"

"Not that I know of," Mrs. Fairfax responded, smiling. "Come, my dear."

As they re-traced their steps down the corridor, a laugh echoed around them. It was a strange laugh; noticeable, loud, but completely without cheer. They both halted, and the laugh faded away, before it began again, and much louder then the first time. It bounced off of the walls and made Rose feel extremely edgy.

"Mrs. Fairfax," Rose whispered, pressing her hands together in the folds of her skirt. "What on earth was that?"

"One of the servants, very likely," she answered, cool as a cucumber. "Perhaps Grace Poole."

"Grace Poole? Does she often laugh like that?" Rose said, disbelievingly.

"Oh yes. She does sewing in one of the rooms. Sometimes Leah joins her, and they can get very noisy. Grace!"

A door set into a curved part of the wall near them opened, and a servant came out. She was rather plain and hard-faced, her grey hair hanging in tendrils out from under her cap. Rose nearly snorted at calling this stranger plain. She was hardly an English Rose (no pun intended).

"Too much noise, Grace," Mrs. Fairfax said firmly. "Remember instructions."

Grace gave the most half-hearted curtsy Rose had ever seen, and slunk back into the room, leaving Mrs Fairfax to usher a most curious Rose away.

* * *

**To be continued...**


End file.
